no ground under my feet

It’s my turn at the little window.
I show my military ID

to the bored Army clerk.

He checks his list

and counts out my final pay,

hands me the crisp twenties,

a five, and two ones.

The fine that I was supposed to pay

for refusing to carry a .45

three months before

has apparently not been recorded.

So I don’t bring it up.

The exit is one step to the left,

and out the side door

into the steaming Carolina morning.

Nothing could be finer.

Fifty feet of narrow sidewalk

to the street where the taxis

wait to take us to the bus station

or the airport.

I don’t feel the ground

under my feet.

Don’t even feel the hard

leather of my dress shoes,

all I’ve worn for two years

on duty are boots.

The taxi driver asks, where to, son?

Take me to the airport, sir.

I can’t quite believe

I’m really free yet.

At the airport,

I go into the mens room.

Change into my civies.

Put those awful dress shoes

in the trash.

The mens room attendant

says, don’t you want those shoes?

He fishes them out of the can.

They’s almost like new.

No sir, you can have ‘em.

Still don’t feel quite free,

until I feel the wheels lift

from the runway and the engines

push me back into my seat

and the jet heads west

to San Francisco.

The stewardess says

Would you like something to drink?

Yes please! I’ll like a bourbon,

if you have it. On the rocks.